Last day

Today is our last day.

I am sitting in the kitchen with a slight hangover - mainly from lack of sleep but also from last night's goodbye party. Tomorrow is D Day, moving out day, our last day in the UK: everyone kept asking me if I felt excited, but I just feel exhausted. It is like having a baby - you are excited when you find out you are pregnant and after that it is all downhill. You forget why you did it, and in the last few days you are enormous and bad-tempered.

It is clear that the house and my body both know something is up. Over the last few weeks, the appliances have all acted up and gone wrong, and then a week ago on Thursday, I was about to go to Lara's school play and suddenly didn't feel well. This turned out not to be my sub-conscious trying to get out of seeing Oliver again - I was then violently ill for a week (you know what violently means in this context) which many people ascribed to stress; however as my mother-in-law had it too, I don't think so, unless she is having phantom removal pains.

It was then D-Day - 4 and I had missed a week.

D-Day-4

At half past eight, three removals men arrive: our mate Fred, one a bit like a less attractive David Essex and a very fat one. They tried to get their lorry next to the house, but the green camper van was parked outside our gate, again. Movers asked, could I get that moved, love? Hmm. Went to the pub to ask Shirley whose it was; someone at number 3. Girl answered the door, and said it was the lodger, but he wasn't there. He stuck his head out and said he was, but he was in bed. I asked if he could move it in the next half hour or so. Went back; the boxes were piling up on the pavement. Movers asked for a coffee.

Half an hour later, lodger had not moved van. Went back: he said crossly that he was just dressing. Eventually he moved it; Fat Mover told me the leather sofa should not have been wedged under the stairs and is scratched; I explained I didn't care; I liked it that way and he looked at me as I were barking.

The lady who is moving in, called to say BT were saying I hadn't put a stop on the phone line. I had, but I had to call them again; the call centre said they were very busy at the moment, and I thought, what do you know about being busy? When I spoke to someone, he said they had cancelled the stop on my line. Why was that, I wondered. It says, customer changed their mind, he said. I said I hadn't changed my mind. He said that it said on his notes that I had. I said, well, can I change it back? He sighed. I mentioned my tenants moving in two weeks later. The man got cross, and said it had been done all wrong! If tenants were moving in, I did not want a stop now, but later! He said someone should have a slapped wrist for doing it all wrong, but he would now change it and put it right. Thank you for your patience.Movers said "Another coffee would be great, love".

Went round the house losing the packing tape and scissors, finding things we had forgotten to pack; there were about 500 boxes and no room to walk. Fat Mover had a hard time squeezing through. Biffy was mewing and clawing the boxes; Shrimpy had vanished.

The post came, with various letters from financial services who had been asked not to send any more mail. I called their call centres, which were also very busy "taking calls from other customers." Is that supposed to make you feel better? Option 1, 2, and 3 never include asking not to be sent junk mail, but I eventually got a rather camp, helpful man, who called said, "I can provide that address for yourself, if you like."

I called the organisation that is supposed to help you stop junk-mail. The call centre options have recorded messages that tell you to write a letter and request an information pack. I try it a few times, then give up.

I talk to HSBC about Spanish account; it turns out that despite massive global multicultural ad campaign about being everywhere in the world, they are not in Spain. The woman says, yes, it is odd, isn't it? Instead, I set up a form to transfer money to our BBVA account; have to read IBAN numbers, etc, many times. Have got very good at "Bravo, Bravo, Victor, Alpha," stuff. Move money, apparently, then try to get on BBVA website but cannot sign in with my passport number. Call BBVA, who say I have another number registered. What can I do, I ask? They don't know - I can call the Internet help number. Decide instead to call back a few times and eventually get a man who gives me the passport number, which is quite different from mine. Go online, try to change the address, but need another number to do this. Ring up, and go to automated service to get number, then go back online. The system says I have been sent a one-use pin, which I need to enter and change on the site. I have not been sent this, or if I have, it will have gone to Spain by post and will take a week to arrive.

Went downstairs to see how men were doing. Fat Mover heaved a heavy sigh and said another coffee would be great. I pointed out the kettle, Nescafe etc and suggested they help themselves.

When they finally went, I saw they had gouged two holes in the £2000 redecoration job in the hall. Called Barry to get him to fix this and the smoke alarms. The kitchen tap wouldn't turn off; Sandy had tried to fix it with a bit of tape, but clearly that didn't work. Called Keith to see if he could fix it. Went out to get cat harnesses, the idea being that we can walk them round Spanish territory before releasing them into it. I know this will not work, but do it all the same.

Later on, Shrimpy appears, looking wary, and sniffs about. We decide we have to shut the cats in till we go, or Shrimpy will run away. He knows what boxes mean - they mean cattery, and he usually vanishes for 48 hours when he sees them. We try the harnesses; he goes very flat like a snake and growls, then nearly strangles himself. Biffy goes mad trying to get her harness off; anyway she is too fat for the waist part. We try to get Shrimpy to walk down the road, but he alternately lies down flat and then charges under parked cars.

All night, the cats yowl their heads off; Shrimpy produces a horrible deep roar that is nothing like his usual mew. Sandy comes in and says the massive cat carrier does not fit in the car. I had asked him to check it fitted 3 times; he said airily that it would, and because he is excellent at spatial awareness and I am crap at it, I had let it go.

In the night, Biffy wees on Alexander's mattress. I get up, put it in the washing machine, and get him another quilt.


D Day -3

Get up early to drop children at mother's, so I can go into London for laser eye check up with Dr Dan. Am nervous about some cells apparently growing on my eye - it will be a real nuisance if I have to come back from Spain - at the time, this seems a worse possibility than going blind. In fact, I am generally likely to take major medical risks to avoid minor inconvenience, like when I had the ganglion and could not cope with keeping the elastic bandage on by the pool and having a big white ankle mark on my tan.

Stop at Sainsbury for cat litter, drop kids off. Mother says sadly that it would be nice to have time to talk before I go. Sandy is getting a bad cold and says he has a temperature; we buy Lemsip. In London, go to my glamorous doctor Gill for valedictory Botox; she is looking slinky as usual, has run off with much younger man but sadly lost her place in Spain in the divorce. I think: I would rather have a house in Spain than a young man, any day.

It takes me 45 minutes and £20 to get to Dr Dan in a taxi. I sit there for 45 minutes eating up market chocolate biscuits and reading Vogue; it is the most rest I have had in a month. I read about ex-model Lady India or Savannah somebody who lives in the jungle in Kenya and shops in London once a year. She is feeding a warthog; I try to relate my move to this. Sandy and I are about twice as fat as them and our house is not in the jungle but we do have wild boar. My eyes are fine; I go to Liberty to try and get some fabric remnants to make things with in Spain; their remnants all start at £65 and vintage ribbon is £45 a metre. I give up and go to meet Jane for a drink, then go home.

We get kids, then go to Pets at Home to look at smaller carrier. Sandy has to go home to get the big one; meanwhile Lara runs around yelling "Mummy! Look at this!" and nagging me to get a chinchilla, rabbit, etc. We swap the carrier, go home and try the cat-harness business again; I tell the children it is a question of perseverance, but I know I will give up shortly. David, kids' godfather, has arrived to say goodbye; I am cross and sweaty and take Shrimpy to the allotment with Lara, where he continues to lie flat, or drag us into people's cabbages, then mews complainingly before making mad dashes to try and escape the harness. When we get back, Sandy has gone to the pub. I phone and yell at him about not being a maid; he says, why don't I come to the pub myself? I yell at him some more, then have a shower and decide to go over. As I leave the house, Alexander runs after me and says one of the cats has done a poo on the hall carpet.

We go to bed: Shrimpy continues the weird, deep mewing at regular intervals. I lie there, listening to it. Eventually, I shut him and Biffy in the kitchen and conservatory area, where they go quiet. Upstairs, Sandy is snoring very loudly so I go down to Lara's room but can't get back to sleep. The futon smells funny; I try not to think it is cat.

D-Day-2

Shrimpy and Biffy are sitting in the larder, on different shelves. They stare at me balefully and start to mew. Sandy takes them off to the vet. We decide to put them in the coach house for the rest of the day; it is too horrible listening to them asking to go out. Amazingly, they go quiet and fall asleep on the sofa, although Biffy does do a poo on the sisal matting.

Sandy takes the kids to Harry Potter movie. From 11 to 5 I clean and pack the rest of the stuff, which has expanded overnight. Then get changed for farewell party. This is good fun, though like all these events, you end up saying the same thing to everyone: yes, I am excited (I am not, actually, I just want it to be over), yes, the weather will be a lot better in Spain, yes, do visit us. If everyone we have invited actually visits us, we will have a full house all year, but they won't; we know that and so do they. The kids and their friends run riot round the streets. Go to bed at 1.30.

D-Day -1

I think to myself that I need a holiday, not in Spain.